Hugh Simmons is an emerging writer despite receiving his bachelor’s degree in writing and publishing in 1985. After a long and satisfying career as a social worker he has returned with a vengeance to poetry, his first love. Hugh lives with his hilarious husband and son in Austin, TX. Hugh’s work has recently been published in Pinhole Poetry and Eunoia Review and many years past in The Emerson Review and Gangsters in Concrete.

Tinkle Tinkle, You Asshole

I say things like, ‘I hate myself’,
‘I hate my life’, and ‘fucker’. I worry
someone will hear me.
My teen-age son heard me.
I told him I didn’t mean it. He
told me he hated himself too!
One night I said fucker
when he was right there.
‘When I say fucker,’ I explained
‘I’m referring to myself.’
Once, in front of the toilet, I said
‘Tinkle tinkle, you asshole.’
Thank God no one heard that. Recently
my son announced, ‘I hate my life.’
I told him, ‘I’m sorry, honey
I’ll do better.’ He said
‘Dad for once
can’t you be quiet? Everything
isn’t about you.’

You Had Two Parakeets

your husband named Guy and Gal,
little flutterballs, yellow
and blue, safe until
you went on vacation
and your neighbor let the cat in.
You found out while trespassing
on protected glacial snow.
You do many unwise things
like getting parakeets
when you already had a cat. Still
when you get home
your husband will set things right
because he loves you
and you love him
and it’s in his nature
to pick up the yellow and blue feathers
your cat
left all over the house.

What I’m Saying

My neighbor hangs compact discs
from a tree in her yard. I think

that’s weird. Whenever I see her
I say hello. The guy behind my house

nailed a Trump flag to his door.
Whenever I see him

I don’t say hello. His neighbor Jim
has a Trump sign in his window. Jim

waves whenever I pass, so
it’s hard not to say hello but I don’t.

I own a peacock with a wide green tail
with silver dots. It hops and screams

every morning. I hate that bird, yet
whenever I see it I say hello.

I guess what I’m saying is
it’s OK not to say hello to Nazis.

“Nothing Unique or Dramatic or Anything”

(sourced from a memory free-write by James O’Connell)

It’s hard for me to recall 4th grade. I’m
better at surrounding years. 3rd grade
because Mrs. Barry was so nice, 2nd grade

because Mr. Gorman hated me, 5th grade
because Mr. Nagle shoved Rusty Higgins
into a wall. Things did happen in 4th grade,

Nixon’s re-election, Watergate shit, IRA
car bombs, but my 4th grade teacher
was who? I remember Milton Millman

because of his name, Frank Brennar
eating paper in math class. I recall
my stepfather’s raging and me feeding

the dogs, but my life then was mostly
on pause. And then I went to college
and after college I worked at Haagen Dazs.

In Answer To Your Question

I told you I stopped drinking because
I got stuck in an elevator that only

went down. At dinner’s end
I said, “I’m glad you’re my friend.”

You said, “I’m glad you’re my friend.”
Then I said, “Don’t get in your car.”

My stomach plummeted
as you drove down the road. What

could I do? Our amygdalas
don’t always tell us what to do.